The Chosen

^{CHAPTER THREE}

His mind seemed to disperse as though his skull had dissolved. Lights ran like smeared neon. Where am I? Who am I? He wasn’t sure. Gradually all that was real to him transposed with a thousand unreal ecstasies. Shapes moved like intent chiffon blobs through the close space of wherever he was.

What’s…happening?

He saw voices and heard tastes. Luxuriant scents touched him palpably as deft hands. From somewhere music played; he could see the notes floating from the speakers, a slow passacaglia by Bach. Each dark note seemed to approach him like an amorphous physical presence.

He felt skewered; he couldn’t move. He felt cosmically heavy and light as air at the same time. He could hear the blood push through the arteries in his brain.

“Watch,” a voice kneaded him.

He opened his eyes. The smeared lights dulled to pasty white, images congealing like lard, squirming.

When he realized what he was looking at, he screamed.

He was looking at his own body sprawled beneath him.

He felt his distant muscles seize, his tendons tighten. He watched his sweat-sheened chest heave in terror.

Wet, syrupy laughter launched about his head like a flock of great black birds.

The old Tercel coughed against the cold, then sputtered to start. Cracks had formed in the dash, the upholstery was peeling, and the brakes squealed as Vera pulled out of the lot and turned onto West Street. Even a company car, the thought drifted. I wonder what kind? An Iroc? A Mustang GT? Maybe a Vette! She knew she was being silly. Even a moped would be better than this clunker.

It was fun to think about, at least.

She knew she’d made the right decision. What other decision was there? To even consider taking Feldspar’s offer was nothing more than a fantasy. Still, she wondered what Paul would say.

The Tercel puttered on, hitching through gears. The heater blared cold air. She rounded Church Circle and veered onto Duke of Glouchester. Spectral blue lights illuminated the great dome of the State House, below the bright moon. Icy street lamps shimmering through the winter air made the streets look frosted. More light weirdly assaulted her at the turn before the bridge: an ambulance roving slowly with its red lights throbbing but no siren.

Her mind strayed as she traversed the bridge. The bay chopped, treacherously black with squirming tails of moonlight. Beyond, myriad sailboats and yachts bobbed in their marina slips. A hundred and fifteen thousand dollars a year, she mused. A higher tax bracket, but so what? With the free car, plus no rent or food expenses, she’d be able to bank fifty a year probably. She’d —

Stop it! she commanded herself, half laughing. A fantasy is all it’ll ever be.

She and Paul shared a decent two-bedroom apartment off Spa Road. It was nice, not too expensive, and all they needed. Paul used the second bedroom for an office, to write. They’d accepted the commonplace nuisances of apartment living—occasionally squalling babies, footsteps on the ceiling, and the explosive wee-hour arguments from the neighbors—as part of the deal. Soon they’d move to a townhouse, or maybe even a small home when they’d banked enough money for a decent down payment. Like most else in life, a relationship could only proceed one step at a time.

Vera parked. The lot stretched on coldly with dark cars. It wasn’t even midnight yet; she was home earlier than usual, which was a good thing, considering the crush of diners they’d had tonight. She felt seduced by the idea of a good night’s sleep.

The moon rose so brightly she squinted; her high heels tapped along the frigid sidewalk. She whisked herself up the steps, fleeing the bitter cold like muggers, and sighed at the gush of heat when she let herself in.

The living room was dark. Paul must be asleep. Despite her fatigue, the excitement still ticked: she couldn’t wait to tell Paul about the offer, but now it looked as if she’d have to wait till morning.

What will he say? she wondered again, more intensely this time. The question, now, seemed to shimmer, like the cold night, the moonlit bay, and Feldspar’s squat, jeweled hand and silky suit. She stood, suddenly stiff in the dark living room. Why was she thinking these things now? Maybe Paul would want her to take the job. Maybe he wants to move. He often mentioned a desire to write books someday. He could pretty much do that anywhere, couldn’t he? Vera’s new salary, plus the free room and board, would give Paul all the time he needed to write.

Why didn’t I think of that before?

Was she being selfish? Vera wanted the job—just not at the expense of her relationship. She was prejudging the situation. Perhaps Paul would be as enthusiastic about it as she was.

There was only one way to find out.

She went down the warm, dark hall, not even yet having taken off her coat. This was important, and the only way she’d know how he felt was to ask him. She’d wake him up and ask him.

But only a few steps showed her she wouldn’t need to. The bedroom light glowed in the door’s gap; he wasn’t asleep after all. Must still be up, reading. Paul read a lot of books, lots of philosophical fiction like Kafka and Drieser and Seymore, and a lot of sociology texts. Vera’s excitement carried her to the door, and when she opened it—

What the…

The scene divided her perceptions. Wrong apartment! she squealed at herself, forgetting that her key had unlocked the front door. She did not consider logic at this precise moment, she couldn’t. She’d walked into the middle of an orgy.

Her hands fell limp at her sides. At once her senses collided with the lewdest scents, sounds, and glimpses. Wrong apartment, she thought again, only now it was the limpest thought that had ever occurred to her, and the palest lie.

This was not the wrong apartment. It was her apartment—hers and Paul’s—theirs. This was their bedroom, their furniture, their carpet and their pictures on the wall.

This was their bed—

—on which now the most perverse scene unfolded.

Vera’s eyelids felt held open by hooks. Three nude figures crowded the bed. A skinny lank-haired blonde, whose wrists had been lashed to the bedposts, lay on her back with her legs splayed. Her eyes looked glazed; she was grinning stupidly. A man stood between her legs on hands and knees, his head lowered in steady cunnilingus. He looked like someone trying to push a peanut with his nose. Though his face was busily buried, Vera knew at once that the man was Paul.

A second woman, much more beautiful than the blonde, knelt aside. She grinned down fixedly, as if in supervision, stroking Paul’s back. She had perfectly straight, light-red hair that shimmered like satin, and large, erect breasts.

“Baby want some more?” she asked.

The skinny blonde wagged her head. On the night stand sat a small jar of some mauve powder. The redhead leaned across, stuck a tiny coke spook in the jar, then brought it to the blonde’s nostril, into which the small amount of powder instantly disappeared. The blonde went limp against her wristbonds, her grin widening. “Aw, God,” she moaned and lolled her head.

“That good, baby?”

“Aw, God…”

“How about you, Paulie?”

Paul’s head raised between the blonde’s canted thighs. He took the spoon, indulged himself of the whitish powder three or four times, then reburied his face into the blonde’s great spread of tawny pubic hair.

Vera watched all this as if watching a traffic accident—in remote horror. They hadn’t even noticed her standing there. The bright light felt raw in her eyes. Past the scene, on the dresser, sat a framed photograph of Paul and Vera arm in arm on the City Dock last Valentine’s Day.

Vera couldn’t even begin to speak. She felt encased in a block of concrete with only two holes through which to peer. Her impulse was to scream, to lunge forward—to react. But her body would not respond to the commands of her brain. All she could do was stand there, immobile as a post, and bear witness…

The blonde looked pallid, the deep lines of her ribs highlighting her malnutrition. A tiny tatoo showed at the center of her throat, a diminutive southern cross. Her bare feet churned in the sheets; her hips subtlely rose and fell against the dutiful attentions of Paul’s mouth. “I’m gonna come again, I’m gonna come again,” she kept murmuring through her stupor. Her wrists strained against the stocking bonds, tendons flexing.

Next the redhead walked around the bed to fetch something. Midstep she stopped and turned. She grinned at Vera.

“Hey, gang. We have a guest.”

The blonde glared. Her breasts looked like nippled pancakes. “Get lost, cunt, unless you want your face rearranged. Find your own blow—four’s a crowd.”

“Now, now,” the redhead toyed. “We can be more polite than that, can’t we? Besides, she’s kind of cute, and I could go for some fresh pussy.” Her blue eyes sparkled at Vera. “Come on, sweetheart. Get out of those clothes. Let’s see how you taste.”

Vera stared back in the sickest shock. Paul’s head came up again, his mouth shiny. He looked at Vera for perhaps a second, seemed to make no recognition at all, then returned again to his oral duties. His tongue churned furiously.

“Don’t be shy. We’re all friends here, we’re good friends. Paul picked us up at Kaggie’s, he even paid for our drinks.” The redhead traipsed to the nightstand opposite, took something up in her pretty shiny-nailed hands. “Or maybe you’d just like to watch first. That’s okay. I like to watch too, like to get real wet and boned up, you know?” Her breasts stuck out like skin-covered glass orbs. She looked healthy, robust; lean but very shapely. Paul continued to maneuver his tongue against the blonde’s unruly thatch. Vera’s stomach roiled at the wet smacking sounds; it sounded like someone eating a sloppy meal, which, in a sense, it was. Vera dizzied at the zeal with which Paul devoured his seedy slat-ribbed companion. “Your boyfriend likes to be fucked,” the redhead proclaimed. “Did you know that?”

The comment seemed cavernous, echoed down from a high, rocky palisade. What did the woman mean? The lewd noises went on, enlaced with the blonde’s loud, slow moans. Then came a sliding, sucking sound, like opening a can of peanut butter, then an even worse slick clicking.

What…what is…

The redhead scooped something out of a big jar. She came around to the foot of the bed—

…what is she…doing?

Vera wanted to scream till her face turned red. Your boyfriend likes to be fucked. She saw now the lengths to which this obscenity would go. Her eyes erratically roved the redhead’s robust physique: the sleek, pretty legs; the thimble-sized nipples; the trim waist and gorgeous hourglass figure. A hot breath snagged in the redhead’s chest as she stickly applied something to herself.

Oh—my—God…

Regardless of the clearly feminine physical attributes, the redhead sported one feature that was not particular to her gender.

A penis.

Vera’s stare melted like a paraffin mask.

She’s got a… she’s got a…

The redhead was a transexual. At least that’s what Vera thought she must be, halfway through the procedure. This was a hideous parody, the near-perfect female physique made aberrant by male genitals. At first Vera thought it must be artificial, but a more intent inspection easily revealed its authenticity: the gorged purple glans, the veined shaft.

Also revealed was the label on the bigger jar: vaseline.

The redhead hummed contently, slicking her hideous erection with the lubricant. It looked huge, gorged stiff and throbbing. The redhead stroked it a moment, leaning her head back with closed eyes. Testicles large as eggs constricted in the dangling scrotum.

“Sandwich time, Paulie. Guess who’s the bologna.” The redhead glided her greased hand up Paul’s buttocks, then pushed him forward.

This is impossible, Vera tried to convince herself. This…can’t…be.

But it was. Paul crawled up the bed, then slowly lowered his hips. The redhead guided Paul’s penis into the moistened fissure of the blonde’s sex. She let him pump awhile. The bed groaned along with the blonde, whose legs flexed beneath Paul’s thrusts. Her bonds stretched against the brass bedposts. Paul plied her meager breasts and sucked red marks into her throat.

“That’s it, Paulie, nice and slow and deep.” The redhead continued to stroke herself. “Stick that cock in her right up to the balls.” Then she kneed up onto the bed, leaned forward. She carefully parted Paul’s rump and began to sodomize him.

Vera gulped as if swallowing a stone. Her bulged eyes strained against their sockets. The redhead, poised on her hands, paused a moment to grin at her. “Stick around, sweetheart. I’m gonna come up his ass so much it’s gonna squirt out his ears.”

Vera churned back, broke her paralysis, and tripped out of the room. Nearly mindless, she staggered down the dark hall, found the kitchen, and vomited into the sink.

Each eruption of vomit seemed to shake her heart loose from the seats of her soul. Yes, that’s what it felt like: emptying her soul as well as her stomach. Each spasm blinded her.

How long she remained bent over the sink she’d never know. The bedposts thumped the wall in the other room, squeals and chuckles fluttered behind stifled grunts. Vaguely she detected music—an organ work by Bach that she’d bought Paul for his birthday.

“Gimme more of that class A blow,” she heard the blonde hotly request. “I’m gettin’ ready to come again, and I wanna do a big toot while I’m gettin’ off.”

Vera walked numb out of the apartment. She let the front door close behind her. She walked down the stairs, out the lighted brick entrance, and into the cold night.

A single tear hitched down her cheek. She did not scream, she did not sob, she did not tirade.

All…gone.

She simply got into her car and drove away.

— | — | —